Home
by Emily Destler
Summary: After 25 years, Madeleine is still plagued by her long lost son: his captivating voice, his horrible face, but most importantly -and most surprisingly- his devastating absence. Erik left home at nine years old, and promised himself he would never go back to that terrible place. But promises are meant to be broken, and he will soon find out the truth. Susan Kay based, my 1st phic.


**(A/N) Hello Phantom Phans! This is the first that I've ever posted a 'phic' on a website, so I would absolutely love it if you could review and tell me what you think! I fell in love with this idea of the story late one night, and wrote the first chapter. This little phic is based solely off of Susan Kay's wondrous works, which includes Marie Perrault, and his mother Madeleine. It is in first person of Madeleine...this ought to be interesting. So, without further a do, please read and I hope you enjoy! **

**Let the story begin! **

Loneliness is not a feeling that you sense at a distinct moment, but a devastation that you have to realize. I have been battling it since my husband passed away, though I never truly understood what this type of solitude meant. I would sit all day in my chair, never caring to progress from that, and remember my beloved husband's words and caresses and kisses, his snarky jokes that would make me laugh until I was red, but now only bring me a knifing pain, and his smile that he gave me whenever I was upset. I would think of my life when I was young and full of energy, how easy I though it would be to live the rest of my days because I had him by my side.

He left me for God precisely three months after I was pregnant.

Marie had not, and cannot, ever fill the void, or help me cope, like Charles did before he died. She doesn't understand, and I can't blame her; because nor I can understand the way I became after... He was born.

Today was like everyday, everyday that pained my sister-like caretaker, because I would not do anything productive aside from trying to understand. Again and again until I was finally free from the no-longer blissful ignorance of my ways. Though, and regrettably so, just because I knew I was awful doesn't mean I have changed. It had all started again, nine years after the tragic day that I became a cold, unfeeling mother, and Marie was growing more and more weary each passing hour. I didn't, or possibly chose not to, care if she would leave me or not. Her company made no difference, for I was still all alone inside my heart. It ached for something that I never realized I wanted. And that realization was something that I could never accept. My chair faced away from the door, because I knew that I couldn't bear the pain that ever-present hope and previous sanctuary would give me. Leaving the house was not an option, no, I was stuck inside to wallow in my very own self-pity. Nevertheless, I was unable to look at the small foyer and gaze at the tarnished beauty of the simple door knob that mocked me, even without my current attention. A painful moral has become a part of me, that even if you can't see it, it still hurts. A pathetic, cloth façade wouldn't conceal the unbelievably ugly truth of existence.  
I learned that the hard way.

But today was so different, so incredibly unordinary, that it could have set both Marie and I on constant, and electrifying, edge. Today, everything would change. I didn't hardly listen to the knock on that damned door, but I thought I could have heard hushed disbelief come from the women who answered it. I felt a strange and unwelcome aura of shock resonate the very air around us, all of us, considering whoever was at the door that gave us such a sense. I didn't want to look, I couldn't bring myself to care. I was trapped inside my mind, almost like I once was a long time ago. Only the Shepard Boy could ever get past me in that haze of worthless, and chillingly childish, delirium. And as of now, all attempt seemed futile.

"Madame Destler,"

I flinched with recognition. That voice; it was a man's voice that I so remembered. This deep, strange, yet outrageously beautiful voice instantly had tears of disbelief streaming down my face. It couldn't possibly be him. Never in my wildest hopes. It was impossible. "_...Charles?_" I croaked out, barely above a whisper, still unable to turn, even at a time like this.

There was a hesitation on that unseen side, and, at each second, I could feel my ridiculous hope dissipating. "No..." And the voice now had a tinge of forlorn hurt. "I'm sorry. Mademoiselle Perrault... I shouldn't have come. I-I should go. Forgive me."

I sprang up from my chair and spun around, wanting to catch a glimpse of who this man was. Oh, it sounded so much like my dear Charles, so much like him, that I had to see where such a beautifully familiar voice sprouted. Something was eerily familiar about the way he spoke to Marie, but I didn't let that phase me. At least, not until I saw him...

The first thing that stuck out to me was the stark, porcelain mask that seemed to be floating atop a black cloak. My heart felt as if it stopped in my chest. He looked at me, almost astonished, and stopped where he was about to bolt out of the house. The golden, luminescent eyes fixated on my face, and I found myself staring directly back into those eery orbs. Almost absently, I scrambled to where he was standing, and I'm sure he would have jumped defensively if I had gotten any closer than I had, considering the way he stiffened at my approach. "Oh my god!" I cried, in spite of myself. Although I didn't wish to show horror to him, I couldn't help myself. My eyes scanned him in disbelief, from mask to toe, then straight back up to his fiery, yellow eyes. "Erik..." Maybe it wasn't horror, but shock, that had me weak-kneed. I would have dropped to the ground, but he caught me before I could get even close to danger of hurting myself. He stayed in the position of his arm hooked safely around my shoulders for a few seconds, as though he couldn't believe he would be allowed to touch me at all, let alone hold me. But, soon, as delicately as I thought would be possible for him, he set my body back on my feet, and held his own self up rather rigidly.

In a state of absolute desperation, I began touching him. I set my hands upon his shoulders. They were broad, very mature, and not at all like the boney knobs he once had. I patted them feverishly, one hand running to his chest, which was no longer caved in as it had been many, many years ago. The other hand went to grab at his forearm, and I took a simple shuffle back to gander at the man who stood before me. Erik, my scrawny, gaunt, elusive nine-year-old son, was now a tall-very tall, he was nearly three heads taller than I- broad, man! His frame, his voice, even his bone structure that had years before seemed so monstrous to me, now, decades later, resembled his father.

He, himself, looked back at me in surprise and confusion, but not nearly for the same reason. He was questioning all of the strange touching, and it seemed, even in his the farthest memories, I never actually recalled giving him this much contact. The only touch he would ever receive which was stronger than this in his entire life in this house was that of a beating; and we both knew it. Suddenly, my emotions flooded my thoughts, and I went hysterical. Grabbing my child, I clutched my arms around his frame and buried my head in his chest, while I wept. His stiff body went even more rigid, but I just held myself there, the silence of the situation only interrupted by my sobs. My boy... My long lost son. The creature I hated, who was also my beloved child. This man... But why was he here?

**(A/N) Very Short. And very little dialogue. Oh well. Please, please, PLEASE tell me how you like it so far with a review. Constructive criticism, and any ideas are ALWAYS appreciated! Thank you so much for reading! **


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